“All stations manned, ready to go when they give the word. Except for Henning Wilhelmsen. He’s lying down or sleeping until I call him. It’s his job tonight.”
“Better do that now.”
Nils took up the phone and dialed Henning’s number; it was answered instantly.
“Commander Wilhelmsen here.”
“Bridge. Will you report now.”
“On the way!”
“There!” Skou said, pointing to the road at the far end of the harbor where a half-dozen soldiers on motorcycles had appeared. “It’s moving like clockwork—and well it better! She has been staying at Fredensborg Castle, twenty minutes away.”
Two open trucks, filled with soldiers, came behind the motorcycles, then more motorcycles acting as outriders to a long, black, and exceedingly well-polished Rolls Royce. More soldiers followed. As though this appearance had been a signal—and. it undoubtedly was—truckloads of troops streamed out of the barracks of Kronborg Castle, where they had been waiting in readiness. By the time the convoy and the car they guarded had reached the entrance to the shipyard, a solid cordon of troops surrounded it.
“What about the lights in here?” Nils asked.
“You can have them on now. It’s obvious to the whole town now that something is up.”
Nils switched on the ultraviolet control-board illumination so that all the instruments glowed coldly. Skou rubbed his hands together and smiled. “It’s all working by clockwork. Notice—I command no one. All has been arranged. Every spy-tourist in town is trying to see what is happening, but they can’t get close. In a little while they will be trying to send messages and to leave and will be even less successful. Good Danes are in bed at this hour, they’ll not be disturbed. But all the roads are closed, the trains are not running, the phones don’t work. Even the bicycle paths are sealed. Every road and track—even the paths through the woods—are guarded.”
“Do you have hawks standing by to catch any carrier pigeons?” Nils asked innocently.
“No! By God, should I?” Skou looked worried and chewed at his lip until he saw Nils’s smile. “You’re only kidding. You shouldn’t do that. I’m an old man and who knows, poof, my ticker could stQp at a sudden shock.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” Henning Wilhelmsen said, coming onto the bridge. He was wearing his best uniform, cap and all, and he saluted Nils. “Reporting for duty, sir.”
“Yes, of course,” Nils said, and groped under the control panel for his own hat. “Throw Dick Tracy out of your chair there and we’ll get started on the pre-launch checklist.”
He found the cap and put it on; he felt uncomfortable. He took it off and looked at the dimly seen emblem on the front, the new one with the Daleth symbol on a field of stars. With a quick motion he threw the cap back under the controls.
“Remove your cap,” he said firmly. “No caps to be worn on the bridge.”
Skou stopped at the door and called back. “And thus the first great tradition of the Space Force is born.”
“And no civilians on the bridge, either!” Nils called after the retreating, chuckling figure.
They ran through the list, which ended with calling the crew to their stations. Henning switched on the PA system, and his voice boomed the command in every compartment of the ship. Nils looked out of the port, his attention caught by a sudden busde below. A fork lift was pushing out a prefabricated wooden platform, ready draped with bunting. It was halted just at the curve of the bow and secured in position; men, dragging wires, ran up the stairs on its rear. Everything was still going according to schedule. The phone rang and Henning answered it.
“They’re ready with that patch from the microphones now,” he told Nils.
“Tell them to stand by. Hook it into the PA after you have made an alert check on all stations.”
The crew was waiting, ready at their stations. They were checked, one hy one, while Nils watched the crowd of notables come forward. A military band had appeared and was playing gustily; a thin thread of the music could be heard even through the sealed hull. The crowd parted at the stand and a tall brown-haired woman made her way up the stairs first.
“The Crown Princess Margrethe,” Nils said. “You better get that patch connected.”
The small platform was soon filled, and the PA system came on in the middle of an official speech. It was astonishingly short—Skou’s security regulations must have ordered that—and the band struck up again. Her Royal Highness stepped forward as one of the crewmen on deck lowered a line to the platform, a bottle of champagne dangling from the end. The Princess’s voice was clear, the words were simple.
“I christen thee Galathea….”
The sharp crash of the bottle against the steel hull was clearly heard. Unlike an ordinary christening the ship was not launched at once. The officials moved back to a prepared position and the platform was dragged clear. Only then were the launching orders given. The retaining blocks were knocked clear, and a sudden shudder passed through the sjiip.
“All compartments,” Nils said into the microphone. “See that your loose equipment is secured as instructed. Now take care of yourselves, because there is going to be a slam when we hit the water.”
They moved, faster and faster, the dark water rushing toward them. A tremor, more of a lifting surge than a shock, ran through the fabric of the ship as they struck the water. They were slowed and stopped by the weight of the chain drags, then rocked a bit in the waves caused by their own launching. The tugs and service boats closed in.
“Done!” Nils said, relaxing his hands from their tight grip on the edge of the control panel. “Is the launching always this hard on one?”
“Never!” Henning answered. “Most ships aren’t more than half-finished when they are launched—and I have never heard of one being launched that was not only ready to cruise but had an entire crew aboard. It’s a little shocking.”
“Unusual times cause unusual circumstances,” Nils said calmly, now that the tension of the launching was over. “Take the wheel. As long as we are seaborne you’re in command. But don’t take her down like you would one of your subs.”
“We cruised on the surface most of the time!” Henning was proud of his seamanship. “Plug me into the command circuit,” he called to the radio operator.
While Henning made sure that all of the launching supports had been towed free and that the tugs were in position, Nils checked the stations. There had been no damage, they were not shipping water. They were ready to go.
They could have moved under their own power, but it had been decided that the tugs should warp them free of the harbor first. No one knew what kind* of handling characteristics this unorthodox ship would have, so the engines would not be started until they were in the unobstructed waters of the Sound. After a brief exchange of sharp, fussy blasts on their whistles, the tugs got under way. As they moved slowly down the harbor, following the torpedo boat that had weighed anchor and preceded them, they had their first clear sight of the area beyond.
“Some secret launching,” Henning said, pointing at the crowds that lined the seawall. They were cheering, waving their arms, and the bright patches of Danish flags were to be seen everywhere.
“Everyone in town knew that something was up here. Once we were launched you couldn’t stop them from turning out.”
The tugs swung a long arc and headed for the harbor entrance. The mole and seawall on either side were black with people, and still more running toward the entrance. As the ship slipped through they waved and shouted, many of them with coats over pajamas, wearing a motley array of fur hats, raincoats, anoraks, anything that could be thrown on quickly. Nils resisted a strong impulse to wave back. Then they were through, away from the lights, into the waters of the Oresund: the first waves broke over the low decks, washing around the boots of the crewmen who tended the lines there.